


A smile is more than showing teeth

by thought



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon Nonbinary Character, Disabled Essek Thelyss, Essek Thelyss's terrible work life balance, Fellas is it gay to notice your correspondent's eyelashes?, M/M, Other, one (1) Nokia phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29439069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: "you are welcome in Zadash should that be an option for you," Caleb had written, "and I would be pleased to set aside a few days to work with you in person."OrHow to seduce your academic pen pal through basic kindness, stolen sweaters, and books. Mostly books.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast, Nott | Veth Brenatto & Caleb Widogast, pre Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast/Mollymauk Tealeaf
Comments: 29
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With a million thanks to [14CombatGeishas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/14CombatGeishas) for all her beta help.  
> This is terribly self-indulgent and I am not sorry in the least.
> 
> Note that I do headcanon Essek as disabled, specifically Post-Polio Syndrome, though it is never explicitly discussed in the text.

“You gave him your phone number?!” Beau demands.

“Yes I did, what about it?” Caleb asks, arching his eyebrows.

“To be fair, he’s already got our address,” says Nott.

“Hang on,” says Mollymauk, “that phone can actually receive calls?!”

“He has a flip-phone,” Beau says, absently, “not their fucking zombie Nokia.”

“Shut up, our Nokia is fine,” Nott says.

“Ja, and you don’t need to say ‘flip-phone’ like it’s some kind of embarrassing disease.”

“I mean, I kinda do,” says Beau. “You have the same phone as my grandma does.”

“Bullshit,” says Caleb, “you haven’t seen your grandmother in years.”

“Can we get back to the part,” Beau says, pointedly, “where you’re meeting a stranger you met on — fuck, I can’t even say ‘on the Internet.’ A stranger you’ve been exchanging perfumed and passionate correspondence with, when the roads are clear enough for the horses to make it between cities. You don’t even know what he looks like. You’ve never spoken to him on the phone. You’re gonna get murdered so hard, and I am going to laugh.”

“Will you at least avenge me?” he asks. “When you’re done laughing.”

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t worry, they’re meeting in public,” Nott says, unearthing a packet of ramen noodles from under a pile of doorknobs.

“I think we are all forgetting I’m the oldest here,” Caleb says. “I’m not a twelve-year-old meeting an old man I met in the...anime chatroom.”

“I know you use the Internet,” Beau says, throwing her hands up. “Why do you do this to me?”

Caleb flips the electric kettle on, frowns, then reaches over the pile of books where it’s perched to plug it into the wall. “He is traveling six hours by train for this, I’m quite sure if he wanted a murder victim he could find one closer to home.”

“Isn’t he a wizard?” Beau asks. “Can’t he just…” She wiggles her fingers and then swings her hands from one side of her body to the other, “woosh!”

“No, he cannot. Teleportation is strictly regulated, the Cobalt Soul just fucking spoils you. Most people can’t just go wherever they want whenever they want for free.”

“I think it’s quite romantic,” Molly says, lightly. He’s buried himself beneath the pile of ragged blankets from Caleb’s mattress, having dragged them all over to the corner of the room beside the space heater, lying in a ball on the floor, horns sticking out and red eyes glowing faintly from somewhere within the blanket mountain.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re two,” Beau says, automatically.

“Essek is a respected academic,” Caleb says. “More or less.”

“More respected, less academic,” Nott says, helpfully. “He’s definitely a spy.”

“He is definitely not a spy,” Caleb says, sighing.

“I don’t wanna know how you know that,” Beau says.

“You really have to get over that whole respecting the legal system thing,” Molly says, then coughs for about thirty seconds. “You ever wonder why we’re not a democracy? Because maybe you should!” 

Caleb bites his tongue so hard he leaves imprints of his teeth. “The point is, he is not a spy, he is not going to murder me, I am meeting a longtime correspondent after many years and my friends should perhaps be happy for me.”

“Just say friend,” Nott says, gently, “‘correspondent’ makes it sound weird.” 

“They both use wax seals on their letters, it was already weird,” Beau says.

“Gods, I don’t envy whoever you date,” Molly grumbles. “You have no sense of romance at all.”

“We are very happy for you, Caleb,” Nott says firmly. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

The blanket pile that is Molly rolls over to face the wall. “They’re not even going to fuck, that’s the worst part. They’re just going to take up a table at the public library and talk about books for eight hours.”

“I mean, that’s basically fucking for Caleb,” says Beau.

“Please get out of my flat now, Beauregard,” says Caleb.

“Keep me updated,” she says.

Nott reaches into the crack between the cushions of the armchair that is her bed and pulls out her own shitty flip-phone. “I’ve got you covered, don’t worry.”

“I want your books when you die,” Beau tells Caleb, pulling on her coat and stomping her feet into her boots without undoing the laces.

“And I want the basic respect of my nearest and dearest,” says Caleb, “yet here we are.”

“I respect you, dear!” Molly calls.

Beau swings the door open, a chill wind rushing up the stairwell and directly down the back of Caleb’s shirt. Frumpkin hisses and bolts for the armchair. Molly hisses in an unsettlingly similar fashion, but doesn’t otherwise react. The autumn days are still mild, but by the time the sun goes down there is no doubt that winter is quickly approaching.

Drawing his knees up against his chest, Caleb hunches over his flip-phone and pecks out ‘ _Looking forward to seeing you._ ’ He can feel his cheeks heating even at this simple declaration.

He doesn’t send it.

*

‘ _I would welcome the opportunity to work with you in real time at any point in the future_ ,’ Caleb had written. He has trained his hands not to tremble even under the most distressing circumstances, so his penmanship remained elegant and precise. ‘ _I am admittedly limited in my technological capabilities, but I would be pleased to speak on the phone with you at a time of your convenience. Alternatively, you are welcome in Zadash should that be an option for you, and I would be pleased to set aside a few days to work with you in person. My phone number is enclosed, as is my email address— I apologize in advance for the inevitable delay in my responses should you choose to contact me by email._ ’

He had had a very small panic attack after he dropped the letter in the postbox, retreating to a nearby park so he could sit on a bench, noonday summer sun beating down relentlessly on his long sleeves and long hair while he tried to do the breathing exercises Caduceus had previously suggested.

He spent the next week hyper-aware of the flip-phone in his jacket pocket, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the soft chime of the ringtone or the aggressive buzz of vibration. When it comes he’s covered up to his elbows in soap bubbles, scrubbing a pot furiously that he and Nott have forgotten in the microwave for...rather longer than he’d like to admit. He barely catches the call in time, fumbling the tiny plastic device, swearing as his blood rushes in his ears.  
“Yes, may I speak to Caleb Widogast?” the voice asks in carefully deliberate Common, far more fluid than he knows his own can be.

“Ja, yes, this is him, speaking,” Caleb babbles out, cursing his own awkwardness.

“Ahh,” the voice says, and then nothing for a long five seconds. “This is...Essek Thelyss. We have been corresponding regarding magical theory related specifically to temporal and transmutive properties — You provided your number in your last letter, so I am…” 

“Ja!” Caleb says, hurriedly. “Ja. Essek. Mr. Thelyss.” 

“Essek, please.”

“Essek. Hello, I am glad you called.” 

He does not sound remotely how Caleb imagined. Caleb had imagined an older man, speaking generically flat Common, perhaps with a Tal’Doreian accent, someone with a confident professorial tone. None of which makes much sense, when he thinks about it. Of course Essek’s first language is Undercommon, he is natively born Xhorhasian. Of course he is young, he had mentioned as much in his early letters. Of course he falls back on the smoothly distant courtesy of a professional, he works for the government. Of course he is fucking awkward, he is too similar to Caleb not to be.

“Yes. I-I am glad as well.”

“Yes,” Caleb says, again. There is a long silence.

“I would...like to work with you,” Essek says, rushed. “In person. I am happy to speak on the telephone, but...I have some days I can take away from my work. I would not mean to presume.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” Caleb says. It is easier to slip into reassurance as Essek’s obvious uncertainty bleeds through. “My schedule can be flexible, and I would be pleased for you to come to Zadash. You and your books.” 

Essek laughs, startled and sharp. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Tell me when you know your travel dates,” Caleb says. “I will find places for us to go, and books to show you.” 

“I have books I think you will like, as well,” Essek says. “I have...a pile, actually. I’ve been gathering them for...a while.” 

Caleb can feel his cheeks getting hot, and wraps an arm around himself. “Ja, I would like that.” 

“Yes.” 

The silence returns.

“Can I text you?” Essek says, “when I know. Or should I call—?” 

“Text messaging is fine, ja,” Caleb says hurriedly. He doesn’t think his heart can handle the stress of waiting for another phone call. “I have been keeping my phone charged.” 

“Ok,” says Essek, “then I will do that.” 

“Ok.” 

There’s another long silence. “Thank you for your time,” Essek says, finally, crisp and oddly formal. “I’ll be in touch regarding the details as soon as I have more information.” 

“Ok,” Caleb says, again, a little taken aback.

“Have a lovely day,” Essek says, and the line goes dead.

Caleb puts the phone back on the counter and goes to splash his face with cold water and sit on the bathroom floor for a while.

*

The day before Essek is due to arrive Caleb cleans the entire flat in a burst of frantic energy. Nott is at work, but Molly shows up shortly after noon with a cardboard tray of coffees and a distractingly enthusiastic smile. Caleb throws a sweater at him and drinks half his black coffee in a rapid series of gulps. It’s cooled by the time outside — they don’t live anywhere near a coffee shop — and he has to swallow hard to keep it from coming straight back up, but he appreciates the flavour and the thought.

“I don’t think he’s going to care if your table is disinfected,” Molly says, wrestling the sweater on over his horns. It was a gift from Jester, and the bright orange clashes painfully with the dark green of Molly’s simple dress and the purple stars on his leggings. Naturally, he looks delighted. Caleb is just pleased he’s managed to, if only temporarily, bundle the tiefling into something more appropriate for the weather. Molly’s immune system doesn’t need any encouragement to fold like wet paper.

“What if Beauregard is right and he is some kind of axe murderer?” Caleb says, setting the coffee aside and swiping the rag one final time over the stained wood table.

“Then we’ll be there to rescue you. Or Beau and Nott will, at least, I have some respect for your privacy. And if they fail, well, you’ll be dead, won’t you, so it won’t be your problem.” 

“Do not let them follow me,” Caleb says, horrified, “Mollymauk, do not let them ruin this for me.” 

Molly flops on the sofa, head hanging upside-down off the arm, tail swishing lazily in the air. “It’s sweet that you think I could stop them.” 

Caleb groans. “This was a terrible idea.” 

“You’ll be fine. There’re lots of people at the train station, he won’t be able to murder you right away.” 

Caleb freezes. “Should I...be meeting him at the station?” 

“Well I suppose I just assumed you were going to, he’s coming here for you.” 

“Yes,” says Caleb, “but we are adults. It isn’t as if he’s staying with us, he has a hotel, he’s not just coming to Zadash to spend time with me. I’m sure he has other things he wants to do.”

Molly’s tail flicks faster. “I can say with almost absolute certainty that he is just coming to Zadash to spend time with you. I’m not sure why you wouldn’t meet him when he arrives.” 

Caleb watches the spade of Molly’s tail moving back and forth, bangles clinking. It’s mesmerizing. He can feel his heart pounding in time.

“Would you like a reading?” Molly asks, tail flopping down and curling on the floor beside him, hand already reaching towards the neatly stacked pile of blankets where Caleb has placed the set of cards he’d found during his cleaning spree. “It could help.”

“Not right now,” Caleb says, “but thank you. I will let you know if I change my mind.” 

Molly shrugs easily. “Sure.”

“I will send him a text message,” Caleb decides, finally, and sits down on the floor where he’s standing to do exactly that.

Twenty-three minutes later, he sends it. The little indicator below the message says ‘ _7_ ’, but he’s not sure what that means.

“Did you write him a novel?” Molly says, once Caleb flips his phone shut and sets it on the nearest stack of books.

“Of course not. I simply wanted to explain my thought processes fully.” 

Molly sighs dramatically. Caleb rises to his feet and reaches over to lift Molly’s head from where it’s still hanging off the arm of the sofa, hair brushing the floor. “You’re going to pass out,” he says. Molly remains limp, letting the full weight of his skull rest in Caleb’s palm.

“It feels weird,” he says, “I like it.”

“I’m sure,” Caleb says, and shoves gently until Molly is forced to sit up.

*

After a series of increasingly awkward text messages, it is agreed that Caleb would meet Essek at the (Caduceus approved) tea shop near the hotel where Essek is staying. Caleb arrives half an hour early, and by the time it’s hit the agreed-upon time Caleb has resorted to reheating the water in his teapot with subtle bursts of fire when no one else is looking to stay relatively calm.

Zadash may consider itself a cultural hub, but northern Empire is still northern Empire, so when the bell on the wooden door clatters and a delicate, white-haired drow enters in business casual clothes more expensive than Caleb’s monthly rent, he knows it’s Essek. He raises a hand as soon as the other man’s gaze sweeps the cafe, and it’s only Caleb’s official and self-guided training in reading body language that allows him to notice the way Essek relaxes, just slightly.

Essek glides across the cafe, and there’s something unsettling about his gate, but it’s only once he is almost in front of Caleb that he realizes he’s floating a couple inches off the floor. It’s odd enough that Caleb fumbles his greeting.

“Caleb?” Essek asks, polite smile firmly in place.

“Ja,” Caleb says, then moves to stand, reconsiders, offers his hand instead (almost knocking over his tea cup) and withdraws it as soon as he realizes Essek isn’t moving to shake. Essek's own arm jolts uncertainly at his side, because Caleb had given him approximately half a fucking second to react. This is why Caleb should never meet new people. “That’s me, hello.”

“Hello,” Essek says. “May I sit?”

“Please.” Caleb does not move to push out the chair across the table from him, which at this point is a fucking accomplishment.

Essek settles himself, then flicks his fingers in a rapid, unfamiliar arcane gesture, and his phone lands softly on the table in front of him.

“That’s a neat trick,” Caleb says, delighted.

Essek ducks his chin, flattered, and it’s amazing how even a hint of honest emotion can make him seem so much more real. Well, no. It’s something he’s seen Mollymauk and Fjord do unconsciously, and thinking back Wulf had— 

“How was the trip?” Caleb blurts out.

“It went well,” Essek says. “I’ve never traveled so far out of Rosohna.” 

Caleb thinks this information affects him far more than it has any right to. “I hope Zadash does not disappoint, in that case,” he says.

“It hasn’t so far,” says Essek, then he freezes, perfectly still for three seconds before shoving himself back up out of his chair. “I should order...tea. Because we are at a tea shop and that is how capitalism works, excuse me, please.”

Caleb watches Essek flee and covers his mouth with a hand to hide whatever his face might be doing. He thinks that if Essek had maintained that mask of courteous confidence, or worse if he had been legitimately at ease, Caleb would have simply shrunk further and further into himself until there was nothing left. They have been writing to each other for years. Caleb may not know Essek the way he knows his other friends, but he is familiar enough that Caleb would not be able to slide into his own mask of arrogant charm, and he’s glad of it; he wants to know Essek better.

Returning to the table, Essek leans startlingly close as soon as he sits down. “We’re being watched,” he says, softly. “At the risk of being melodramatic, do you have any enemies?”

Caleb’s stomach drops, and for a moment the world is nothing but static and light and weightlessness. He breathes. In. Out. Feels the wood of the table under his palms. Closes his eyes. 

“Yes,” he says, “but even worse, I have friends.” 

Essek is quiet, and when Caleb opens his eyes he is watching him as if waiting for Caleb to finish his sentence.

“I mean, uhh, that my friends are rather over-protective, and I suspect at least one of them has decided that I am incapable of taking care of myself.” 

Essek purses his lips. “And that is...friendship?” 

Caleb pauses, bites back on his instinctual defence of his friends. “It is... caring,” he says, thoughtfully. “I think there is a lot to be said for contextualizing someone’s actions— we’re told so often that intent doesn’t matter, but I think sometimes knowing the intent negates the harm.” 

Essek frowns. “I’ve found intent matters very little, but I suppose our experiences have been very different.” 

Caleb scans the tea shop, then, when that turns up no one suspicious, he checks out the window. The tiny figure on the bench across the street is mostly shielded by a newspaper, but the green skinned fingers wrapped around the edges of the paper give her away. Not much she can do about that without magic. Disguise Self is one of those spells that is illegal for civilians, he’d almost learned that the hard way. So much easier to hide when you can be someone else entirely.

“She’s harmless,” Caleb says, clearing his throat and forcing his thoughts back to his current situation. “She’ll get bored eventually.”

“One hopes before you do,” Essek says, and smiles.

*

The next evening Caleb brings Essek back to his flat to show him a modified spell in his spellbook. They’re both a little drunk on expensive wine, but Caleb is far too careful to open his spellbook where anyone can see even intoxicated. He’d lost his first spellbook, of course, after everything, but even a decade later he’d known the right places to look for the high quality paper and ink he became accustomed to at school, and Nott had helped him find the right contacts to obtain it for him anonymously.

Logically he understands that plenty of wizards go their entire lives with spellbooks that can be read by anyone who gets their hands on them and which don’t back up to a personal server after every new addition, but Bren learned to value quality in excess, and while Caleb his shaken off most of those habits like ill-fitted costuming, there are still a few indulgences that have become baked in. All that being said, anyone who knows what they’re looking at would recognize the materials of his spellbook, and that is the precise sort of attention he needs to avoid.

He leads Essek into his home only to find Nott and Molly both present, the smell of burned food and astringent chemicals thick in the air; four of the books on the far left bookshelf are no longer in alphabetical order. It’s horrifying.

“Oh look, Nott, Caleb’s brought a nice boy home!” Molly chirps. He’s drinking from a massive pink mug that Caleb’s never seen before in his life, sprawled out on the floor painting his claws.

“Wow!” Nott says. “Look at this person who is completely unfamiliar to me! I am startled! Amazed! A complete stranger in our home!” 

“I’ve changed my mind, we’re leaving,” Caleb says, but Essek has already brushed past him in the doorway and is trying to slide a book out from under the leg of the coffee table. Sighing, Caleb hurries to stop him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He only realizes his breach of social boundaries when Essek, crouched, tips his head back to look up at him. His eyelashes are almost translucent, but caught in a beam of lamplight they are very long, brushing his cheeks when he blinks.

Caleb pulls his hand back, but he can still feel Essek’s warmth against his leg. “Those are not good books,” Caleb explains. “They are under there because they are being punished.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I have a lot of books you will be interested in,” Caleb says, “but not those ones. They are, uhh, well. They are serving their best purpose holding the table steady.” 

Essek laughs softly. “That seems harsh, but I will trust your judgement.” 

Caleb takes a step back. “Come here,” he says. “I will show you some good books.” 

Caleb isn’t looking at Molly, but he can feel his eyebrows wiggling. Nott is sharpening a knife. Essek places his hands on the coffee table and pushes himself up, swaying slightly. He doesn’t resume floating, but there is still something gracefully alien in the way he walks.

Essek is dressed finely, even in casual clothes, tight black jeans and a dark purple button down that looks tailored. There are iridescent gemstones dotting around the shell of each ear, connected by a silver chain as thin as a strand of hair. His gold eye makeup is ever so slightly smudged, and there is the faintest streak of something in his hair that Caleb strongly suspects is ink. On the surface he does not fit in this space, the contrast of his near perfection stark against the shabby reality of their home.

Yet, Caleb reminds himself, Essek has come further from his own home than he has ever done in his over a century of life just to see Caleb in person. He speaks of friendship like it is something he has only considered in theory, and barely even that. Even at his youngest and most arrogant, Caleb had not leapt into the unknown on his own so easily. He wonders if he is a calculated risk for Essek. Wonders how the equation is balancing. Essek is smiling eagerly at him, content to wait for Caleb to share his knowledge, even though Caleb is fairly sure any arcane understanding he has pales in comparison to Essek’s.

It is surprising how easily perspective can shift Essek from something distant and untouchable to something isolated and vulnerable. Something exactly the same as Caleb had once been; the same as all of his friends. It is strange to be on the other side of this; strange to be the one who is settled. For all that Caleb is awkward with Essek’s presence in his flat, he is quite suddenly even less comfortable with the idea of him returning to his silent hotel room alone through the darkened streets. He does not fear for his physical safety, yet his protective instincts are roused nonetheless.

He pulls his spellbook out of his jacket and adds it to the pile of books he’s been gathering from the shelves. “We can start with these,” he says, and steps over Molly on his way to the sofa. Essek follows, politely skirting around the tiefling obstacle. He settles himself on the lumpy cushions and Essek sits close beside him.

“Alright,” Caleb says, opening the first book, “this is what I was talking about at lunch.” 

Essek leans in close. Molly’s tail curls around Caleb’s ankle, even as he continues to focus on his manicure. It is the closest Essek and Caleb have been yet, and he is surprised how uncomfortable he isn’t. 

This should feel unsafe. 

This should feel awkward. 

This shouldn’t feel right.


	2. Chapter 2

“Will you take a look at this?”

Essek assumes Caleb is asking about a passage in a book, perhaps the results of an experimental spell.  
He’s not expecting to have to scan the apartment (room, it’s _one room_ and somehow everyone seems to just… call it an apartment) and finally see his legs — encased in jeans that have faded to a dull grey — sticking out from beneath the kitchen sink. Caleb is wearing frankly hideous slippers with cat ears on the toes.

Essek is curled on the makeshift window seat (in reality a cushion on a radiator). The rain beating hard against the glass; a pleasant, if not soothing, backdrop to his reading. He’s wearing Caleb’s clothes — or at least his sweater — and it feels terribly, shamefully indulgent. It’s too large; the sleeves cover his hands entirely. He feels like the protagonist of some romantic novel — starving artists in garrets, sharing breathless kisses against the backdrop of autumn leaves.

He does not want to shatter the dream-like contentment to investigate whatever is lurking in amongst the pipes. There is quite literally nothing that could be under there — mice, mould, leaks — that he wants to deal with.

“I sincerely doubt I’ll be of any use,” Essek calls over, tucking a finger in his book to mark his place and giving Caleb his full attention.

“Hmm,” says Caleb. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Are we actively on fire?” Nott calls, looking up from the series of wooden crates over which she’s spread out a variety of glass beakers and is presently mixing incredibly questionable liquids and powders together. Essek has no idea what a home drug lab looks like and he’s trying to reassure himself that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation that isn’t that.

“No,” Caleb says, dragging the ‘o’ out absently. “Possibly the opposite.”

Nott doesn’t reply. Essek really isn’t sure what he can do to assist, but he’s starting to think he should at least investigate the situation. And yet, he is very comfortable. Nothing hurts, even in the unseasonably rainy weather. Even after hours of being cramped on a train the previous day, and sleeping on Caleb’s thin mattress overnight.

The first time he came to meet Caleb in person he hadn’t been sure what to expect, and booked a hotel ahead of time where he had spent three very lonely nights agonizing over every interaction at the library, the coffee shop, and the wine bar that they rotated through each day. He had gone home with Caleb on the second day to look at his spellbook some books, and when they had stepped out of the taxi in front of the run-down apartment building, windows boarded up and trash scattered on the steps, he had been quite certain he was about to be discretely tortured to death, proving his entire family humiliatingly right.

He hates to admit it, but when he had entered the apartment to find a tiefling and a goblin already there, in amongst stacks of clearly expensive, clearly well-cared for books, he had been immediately relieved. He had no trouble at the border crossing, only a few stares from fellow coffee shop customers, but he’d never left Xhorhas as an adult and he’s heard stories about the racism that non-human/elves have to deal with. Caleb is a lovely human, but he is still a human and still (while far younger than Essek in actual years) arguably far more settled in adulthood. 

Also, ‘Caleb Widogast’ doesn’t show up on any records Essek has been able to access, even with his rather formidable skills with information synthesis and accessing said information through both magical and technological means.

It’s… rather unsettling, but the more he observes Caleb in person the more he thinks he has an idea of why his name has been erased — or never existed to begin with. This visit, he’s staying in the apartment… and he’s already witnessed one of Caleb’s nightmares.

In short, Essek is reasonably certain that Caleb was at one point a war mage or a military researcher. Possibly both. Ironically, this would probably make his mother less disdainful of the whole endeavour.

“What’s wrong?” Essek asks.

Caleb swears. “Well,” he says, now falsely cheerful, “this pipe, which I frankly did not know even existed until ten minutes ago, is bulging rather alarmingly. So that’s going to… be interesting.”

Nott starts humming to herself. Essek stares uncertainly at Caleb’s legs. “That is...unfortunate,” he offers finally.

“You are both fucking indispensable, thank you,” Caleb says, crisply.

“Is there perhaps someone you should call?” Essek offers.

“…Yasha, maybe,” Caleb says, after a very long minute. Somehow Essek doubts that this Yasha is anything so logical as a building manager or repair person.

“What is she gonna do, intimidate it into not exploding?” Nott asks, still not looking up.

Caleb groans, and slides out from under the sink, flopping down and remaining on his back on the tile. “I don’t know! Maybe!”

Uncertainly, Essek unfolds himself from his seat, leaving his book on the window ledge and bracing himself until he can shift his density to something light enough that he can manage the walk across the room. Caleb’s familiar is sitting on the top of a bookshelf, watching everything while his tail swishes back and forth slowly.

“Can somebody cast mending?” Nott asks.

Essek blinks. “I– it’s not—”

“Ja, I’ve never bothered—”

“I’m certain there’s an alternative, perhaps a more elegant solution—”

“There is tape, I think, that keeps water inside? I’m certain this is something that must exist.”

“I could try to… melt the metal? Maybe?” Nott stands up. “Maybe we could sort of squish it back into place?”

“Ja, ja, ok, and we can call Jester when she is finished work. She can perform mending, or freeze the water?”

“I’m quite certain frozen water and metal pipes don’t mix,” Essek says, feeling a little more confident.  
Essek comes up beside Caleb, absently resting both hands on the back of the single wooden chair that holds a microwave. Nott joins them, hopping up on the counter and kicking her feet against the broken cupboard doors.

“So,” she says.

“Right,” says Caleb.

Essek, after a moment, says, “well.”

The silence continues. Everything smells like fresh coffee and damp wood and ink. Outside the apartment door, someone runs past, swearing loudly. Sirens rise and fall outside the window. From under the sink, something begins, very slowly, to drip.

Essek is struck with the inexplicable urge to laugh. The situation holds the potential to be catastrophic, yet the sheer ridiculousness of three adults, all of whom are quite intelligent, standing baffled before a simple household maintenance issue is comical. Essek meets Nott’s eyes, then looks to Caleb.

“Fuck,” says Caleb, covering his face with his arms.

As the frequency of the dripping increases, Essek is struck with the strange sensation that in this moment he is closer to these two people with whom he has spent merely days, than he has ever been to anyone else in his life.

*

“So was it everything you wanted?” Molly asks, appearing out of fucking nowhere as Caleb exits the train station and looping his tail around Caleb’s waist companionably.

Caleb ducks his head. He’s still feeling a little lightheaded with adrenaline and amazement. “Honestly?” Caleb asks. “A bit, ja.”

Molly wriggles in glee. “Did you recite poetry to each other in the moonlight? Did you fuck him? Did you make passionate love on top of a pile of ancient tomes?” 

Caleb stops walking and turns to face Molly, cupping his face between his hands. “Mollymauk, if you _ever_ do anything to or near or on top of any of my books, I will ensure you never experience happiness again. Ok?”

Molly sighs dramatically. “You spoil all my fun.”

“Never. Again. In your life.”

“Ok, ok!”

Caleb nods firmly, and drops a quick kiss on Molly’s forehead. “Glad we understand each other.” He releases Molly’s face and continues down the pavement.

“So, I’d like details,” Molly says, pointedly.

Caleb hunches his shoulders. He’s already sliding from elation to panic the further he gets away from the dream-like space that was the last four days. He hadn’t intended to walk Essek to the train station, but they had been in the midst of a fascinating conversation when the time came for him to depart, and it had felt natural to accompany him. Caleb had watched him as they’d walked, the way the wind ruffled his perfectly styled hair, the smooth glide of his minor gravitational spell, the concentration coming so easy to him to manipulate the very pull of the entire planet, the sharp points of his shoulder blades out of his high collars and stiff jacket he is unexpectedly delicate — and, ok, yes, perhaps he’d been watching his lips as well. And as they’d walked he’d come up with a plan. A calculated risk.

So when they had arrived at the train station, when Essek had his ticket in hand and the train was pulling in, Caleb had turned to him; his heart beating so hard against his chest he thought he was going to pass out. He’d touched Essek’s elbow lightly, a brush of fingertips. Essek had looked up at him, even floating he is still shorter than Caleb and it makes something fond ache behind his teeth.

Essek had smiled, small and helpless like he was trying to force his happiness into a box but kept losing hold of bits of it — like trying to put a cat in a carrier. Caleb had lifted a hand to rest against his shoulder and said, “This has been very good. All of this. You are… I am very glad we chose to move beyond letters.”

“As am I,” Essek had said, and tilted his face slightly up. Caleb had been watching the flash of the arrivals signs over his shoulder.

“I-I apologize if I’m overstepping, or if I’ve misunderstood something. I do that a lot, apparently.” Caleb had leaned in very slowly, and he’s not sure but he thinks it may have been Essek who moved the final bit forward to brush their lips together.

“You’ve not misread this,” Essek had said, “not at all.”

The automated announcement for Essek’s train had bleated out over the intercom, and Caleb had stepped back, certain his cheeks were bright red. “Good,” he’d said. “I’m glad. Have a good journey.”  
And then he had fled.

Molly bumps his shoulder against Caleb’s. “You’ve got to tell me something.”

“We… I kissed him,” Caleb says, and can’t help the smile that creeps across his cheeks.

“Well, that’s a start,” Molly says. He turns towards the market and with his tail still around Caleb’s waist the human is forced to follow.

“We have food,” Caleb points out.

“Noodles and green tea do not count.”

“There’s a bag of potatoes somewhere.”

“Somehow that’s worse than no potatoes. Did you feed him takeaway all week?”

Caleb waves a dismissive hand. “We had   
dried fruit. And coffee. We drank all of it.”

Molly tips his head, like he’s waiting for something. “We’re definitely buying food,” he says after the pause. “Protein. Bread. Some camomile tea, if Cad doesn’t manifest from the void to stare judgmentally at the box.”

Caleb huffs out a sigh, and reaches over to untangle Molly’s horn jewelry. “Alright. It would perhaps be good to have something other than coffee.”

Molly nudges his head into Caleb’s hand. “Perhaps.”

Caleb tugs his scarf up higher. It still smells like Essek’s shampoo. Just before they enter the shop, a snowflake lands on his cheek. He pauses and looks up at the overcast morning sky.

“Oh!” says Molly, softly. “First snowfall!” He looks enchanted and he lasts four seconds before the forked tongue emerges from between his lips, waiting for snowflakes to land.

Caleb hasn’t welcomed the beginning of winter with anything but resignation since he was a child. It’s strange to realize the feeling has returned.

*

“I’ve missed this,” says Caleb into the silence of the room, otherwise broken only by the soft flipping of pages and Nott’s faint snores from the far side. They’ve dragged Caleb’s mattress up against the wall and piled pillows as a backrest, creating a sort of very low couch, and he and Essek are sitting side by side, shoulders pressed together and blankets wrapped over them. Molly is curled at the head of the mattress, his face tucked against the side of Caleb’s leg, one horn jabbing into Caleb’s thigh. He’s sound asleep, tail wrapped around himself and the tip tucked up under his chin. It would be adorable but Caleb knows the only reason he’s sleeping so soundly is because of the medication he had, on Caduceus’s advice, slipped into Molly’s tea. Caleb hadn’t really understood what Yasha meant when she said winter was a bad season for Mollymauk until he’d found the tiefling feverish and coughing in the corner of his flat for the third time in six weeks.

Essek’s hair brushes soft against the side of Caleb’s neck when he nods. “As have I.”

It’s only been three weeks since Essek’s last visit. There had been a month between the first and second, but Caleb isn’t objecting to the escalation. Essek has been emailing back and forth with someone all day. Caleb doesn’t want to intrude, so he’s not asked who is on the other end, but every time his phone vibrates Essek flinches, just a little bit; someone less observant might never notice. Nott had managed to flip Essek’s phone to ‘ _do not disturb_ ’ while he was helping Caleb make tea, and so far he hasn’t realized. The longer they sit together reading, the more tension slowly  
drains from his frame.

They still haven’t spoken about the kiss. Very little has changed about their interactions besides their frequency. Caleb has paid more for text messages in the past three months than he has in his entire life. He had casually offered Essek the same sweater he’d worn on his last visit, and he hasn’t taken it off all afternoon.

When Caleb had met him at the train station the day before, he’d been unfocused in conversation and barely managing to keep himself floating. He had denied his fatigue when Caleb had asked, but Caleb had bundled him into a taxi and back to his flat nonetheless. Essek had hardly moved after collapsing on the sofa, and while Caleb knows elves don’t usually sleep, he’s quite certain Essek had been utterly unresponsive by 8:00 in the evening. Caleb had covered him with all the blankets not already wrapped around Mollymauk, and spent at least an hour resisting the urge to pet his fingers through the pale strands of his hair.

That morning Essek had apologized, as if his exhaustion was a deliberate slight on Caleb’s hospitality. “It happens, from time to time, no matter how much care I take to trance regularly. I was hoping I was imagining it in the past few days.” 

“Don’t push yourself,” Caleb had said. Essek had shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter either way. And I would prefer to spend my time productively.”

Essek hadn’t come prepared for the snow, but Caleb had wrapped him in three scarves. Mollymauk had layered himself in three jackets and Nott had just flat out wrapped a blanket around herself like a cloak. None of his fucking family has any tolerance for even a mild winter. They’d all gone to the nearest chain coffee shop for massive paper cups of overly-sweet Winter’s Crest-themed drinks (Caleb had ordered a holiday coffee blend, which he drank black, because he is entirely confident that Beauregard would know if he drank anything besides black coffee, just as he would know if she did so). Caleb and Nott had lasted twenty minutes sitting across from Molly and Essek while the latter two snapped pictures of their drinks and their faces and doubtlessly whatever other minutia is apparently inexplicably fascinating to the internet. The third time Caleb had asked a question only to receive a politely blank smile from Essek and a falsely interested hum from Molly, he had downed the remainder of his coffee and stood up. Nott had threatened to steal their phones, which is probably what actually convinced them to put them away, but Caleb holds some hope that his own frustration may have played some small part.

Determined to force his companions to actually engage with their surroundings, Caleb had led them next to the community art gallery where Molly volunteers, though Essek had mostly worn an expression of polite condescension and Nott had started complaining about her boredom within ten minutes. Wandering the displays with Molly is always a delight — entirely because of his sincere passion and enthusiasm, the art itself is categorically terrible — and Caleb only put a stop to things when Molly’s voice began to come out raspy and painful.

The entire excursion hadn’t taken more than three hours, but by the time they were trudging home through the snow Essek’s feet were dragging and Molly had been unusually silent, head ducked into his coat collar. Now Caleb and Essek are the last two awake, even Frumpkin curled peacefully on top of Molly. Caleb suspects Essek is conscious only through a significant application of stubbornness. 

It’s quietly upsetting, imagining Essek in a city that Caleb has never seen, alone in his posh flat. He’s never mentioned friends to Caleb, but that doesn’t mean they don't exist. Caleb knows his relationship with his family is strained, and it makes him want to keep the drow close, keep him safe in his home until the fatigue of overwork and the betrayal of his physical form has faded.

Caleb knows in the long run Essek would be better off without him in his life. So would everyone else he knows, except perhaps Nott, but Nott is a special case in the same way he is a special case for her. That doesn’t stop him from coaxing Essek’s head down onto his unoccupied leg when the drow’s eyes glaze over, carefully balancing his book on his shoulder blades, pulling up the blankets so Essek’s almost entirely covered. The room is cold, but Caleb is warm. The pipes in the wall beside them clang discordantly, and he can hear cars crunching through the ice and snow on the road below the window. 

He feels... happy.


	3. Chapter 3

Essek regrets traveling during the holidays. Winter’s Crest celebrations in Xhorhas are few and far between, and he’d honestly forgotten that other countries embrace both the religious and commercial aspects of it with fervour. The train is perhaps a little busier than usual until they cross the border, at which point every stop brings crowds of harried travelers, complete with small children and over-sized suitcases. He retreats further into his window seat, and regrets the impulsive nature of the trip that had left him without a first class ticket. A pair of elderly men in expensive suits have been across from him since Rosohna, and a tiefling teenager had taken the seat beside him at Asarius, backpack clutched in her lap and headphones firmly in place over her ears, music loud enough that the thumping bass has set up a steady pulse in the back of his head.

The humans behind him have very strong-smelling coffee and two screaming children, and Essek is slowly losing his mind. His ankles ache like there’s an iron hammering repeatedly striking his bones, and his head is pounding with a combination of exhaustion and what is probably low blood sugar. He’d considered purchasing a pre-packaged sandwich while he was waiting for the train, but a combination of stress and caffeine had already induced enough nausea that food had become utterly unappealing. His phone has been vibrating every few minutes in his pocket, but he can’t bring himself to check for fear that it’s his work email. In theory, he’s taking a flex day, but in practice that means literally nothing. He’d been working until 5:00 that morning, and with a 8:00 a.m. ticket he hadn’t seen any point in trancing in the little time he had available.

By the time the train arrives in Zadash’s city centre Essek thinks that if he had not experienced extended family dinners at regular intervals he would have believed he fell into one of the hells. He waits for his seatmate to vacate the train car before he stands so that no one sees the way he has to use his arms to pull himself up, and the awkward few seconds as he clutches the back of the seat while his gravitational manipulation takes effect. Once he’s put himself together and gotten organized, he glides down to the platform with his duffle bag floating at his side, already typing Caleb’s address into his phone.

Caleb is working until 6:00 p.m., and Essek has no interest in waiting around in a coffee shop or even at the library for four hours. He knows roughly where the apartment is and that it is within walking distance of the train station. Nott had shown him how to pick the locks the last time he was there, only two weeks before. He’s less certain of his ability to negotiate Caleb’s arcane protections, but he’s confident enough that the risk is worth it.

He’s just stepping off the platform onto the concourse when something snatches his wrist. He flinches on instinct, yanking his bag close against his side.

“Essek, hello!” says Mollymauk. He’s bundled up in a bright pink jacket and a tatty grey scarf, a knitted headband covering his ears. His horns are distressingly bare, as is his tail, charms and chains jingling musically as he moves. His leggings and sneakers are almost certainly not adequate protection against the cold and snow. 

“You didn’t have to come,” Essek says, instead of anything vaguely acceptable like ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’ or ‘it’s a pleasure to see you’ or ‘are you actively trying to die of pneumonia?’ 

“Caleb has work,” Molly says, “and it’s too cold to sit outside for long. Besides, most people aren’t interested in getting their cards read when they’re likely to freeze to the ground if you stand in one place.” 

“In that case, I appreciate the company,” Essek says, which is only partly a lie her realises, surprising himself. 

“There are a lot of Winter’s Crest parties happening,” Mollymauk says, starting towards the exit, “so I’ve got a fairly decent number of gigs next week, it’s not like things are desperate, but days get long with nothing to do.” His voice is hoarse and softer than usual. Essek wonders if he’s been nursing the same illness for the past three months or if his immune system is simply offering a sampler throughout the season.

Essek trails after him, glad Mollymauk isn’t turning his head to speak to him, as the effort of forcing his face into an engaged smile seems overwhelming and likely painful. “You do... art, correct?” he asks, not quite sure what the proper phrasing is for the tattoos Mollymauk designs.

“Mmhm, I have been working a lot on that. Even got a few commissions through the Instagram that Jester set up for me. It’s amazing how many tattoo artists can’t wrap their brain around adjusting the colour pallet for non-human or elf skin.”

Mollymauk holds the door for him, and Essek pulls his coat closer around himself as he steps out into the icy air. “Is it that amazing, really?” 

Mollymauk barks out a startled laugh. “Not at all. Have you ever considered getting ink? I’d be happy to draw something up for you.” 

“I haven’t,” Essek says, honestly. “But your work is quite lovely, and should I ever want to investigate the possibilities, I’d certainly be pleased for your assistance.” 

Mollymauk tugs his scarf up over his nose, shivering visibly. “Honest to gods, my heart grows three sizes every time I’m reminded you actually live in the future with the rest of us. Though I did bully Caleb into learning the Snapchat cantrip last week, so there’s a whole new world of possibility for all of us, you’re welcome.” Essek can hear him grinning. 

“We speak on the phone often,” Essek says. “I’m entirely content to follow his lead in regards to what he’s comfortable with.”

Molly snorts. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t appreciate getting his reactions to the fucking glamour shots you post?”

“I do not post... _glamour shots_ ,” Essek says, rolling his eyes just a little bit. He knew as soon as he gave Mollymauk access to his protected social media accounts he would regret it.

“You absolutely do,” Mollymauk says, “and I appreciate them both for the visuals and for the spite I can feel radiating off of every single one. I assume you have a lot of shitty former classmates or whatever who feel very inadequate every time they see how successful and attractive you are.” 

“That would be petty,” Essek says, “and also you should stop interpreting real life through the lens of mediocre television plot devices.” 

They turn the corner and Essek bites off a pained gasp as the sunlight scorches across his eyes. He squints instinctively, ducking his head in a gesture still habitual even after 50 years with his hair cut short.

“Here,” says Mollymauk, from startlingly close beside him. Essek takes a step back. Mollymauk presses something into his hand—

“Why do you own these?” Essek says, before he can stop himself, staring down through watering eyes at the glitter-encrusted glasses he’s now holding.

“I think the question is why don’t you own these?” Mollymauk retorts, amused. “Or at least a posh version. And _technically_ they’re Jester’s.”

Essek had been trancing the evening Caleb’s friend Jester had come to repair the broken pipe in Caleb’s apartment, but he feels fairly confident, from the stories he’s heard, that he could have predicted the glasses’ owner without much difficulty. The lenses are shaped like hearts. It’s distressing on a fundamental level.

“It honestly has never been this bright when I’ve been here previously,” Essek admits, "and I admit I wouldn’t know where to purchase tinted glasses at home.” 

“Sunglasses,” says Molly. “You have to try them on, it’s hurting me just looking at you. Also, did I mention Caleb has Snapchat now?” 

“Oh no,” says Essek.

“Oh yes,” says Molly, and then begins coughing so hard Essek is a little concerned he's going to collapse in the street.

Essek puts on the glasses. The arms are still shaped to fit Mollymauk’s ears, but it’s simple to bend them around his own. It seems not all glasses in the Empire are the strangely rigid contraptions that Caleb keeps repaired with duct tape. The second he looks up he hears the shutter sound on Mollymauk’s phone.

“Perhaps we should get somewhere a little warmer before you humiliate me on social media,” Essek says, watching Molly tremble through the final few coughs as he tucks his phone back into his jacket, looking pleased with himself.

“Sure,” says Molly. “We can go bother Caleb at work.”

“That seems inadvisable,” Essek says, frowning. He tries to imagine performing social interactions with Caleb’s coworkers in a too-warm cafe filled with the smells of coffee and industrial cleaners and wants to cry.

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” Mollymauk says, smirking. Essek blinks the final dampness out of his eyes. The sunglasses aren’t a perfect solution, light still slicing in from the edges, but he can at least see around him without fearing for his long term vision.

“If nothing else, I would appreciate the opportunity to drop off my bag.” 

Mollymauk sighs dramatically. Or at least he tries to. The coughing makes it more of a wheeze. “Fine, fine. It’s a bit of a walk, though. I'll try to keep us in the shade.” 

“I’m fine,” Essek says, “the sunglasses are—” 

“A fucking incredible aesthetic, but not actually particularly functional,” Mollymauk cuts him off. “Let me know if it gets unbearable.”

“There is literally no way that will happen,” Essek says. He can bear rather a lot, and a little discomfort born of his own ill-preparedness doesn’t even register.

“Ok, ok,” Mollymauk waves his hands, and pushes off of the brick wall he’d been using to hold himself upright. “Let’s go before we get yelled at for existing in public. Bryce isn’t on duty today.”

Essek is more interested in getting somewhere dark where he can lie down (and preferably warm enough that Mollymauk won’t die of exposure) than he is trying to follow Mollymauk’s ramblings.

They get to the apartment eventually, with frequent stops for Molly to lean against the side of a building and cough into his scarf. Essek loses concentration on his duffle bag halfway there, and even with his own body as light as his density cantrip can make it, the effort of moving his legs is agony.

Even with the sunglasses, his head ache has doubled, and he’s endlessly glad that Mollymauk has keys to all of the locks, both mechanical and arcane. Molly bustles around the apartment aimlessly, flipping the kettle on, straightening stacks of books, hanging his coat on the back of a chair, then moving it to the doorknob, then to the table. Essek sits perched on the edge of the sofa awkwardly, hands clasped in his lap, pinching at the skin on the back of his hands to keep himself alert. It’s warm inside in comparison to the bright chill of the streets, and it only makes him sleepier, tiny shivers darting up and down his arms. Molly hands him a mug of tea, something spicy and sweet that he can’t identify. It burns the back of his throat, but the aftertaste is pleasant.

“I know it’s a little intense,” Mollymauk says, apologetically, and Essek is horrified to realize his face must have somehow conveyed his reaction to the drink. “But it gets rid of my cough.”

“...Does it,” Essek says, flatly.

Mollymauk nods, seeming completely sincere. Essek takes another sip. Molly finally sits down on Caleb’s bed, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. They sit together in silence, staring at their phones, for an embarrassing amount of time. Essek leans into the corner of the sofa and wishes he’d just stayed at home and thrown his laptop off the balcony instead.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and yet suddenly it’s dark and even colder and someone is touching his shoulder, saying something.

“Essek, slide down, you’re going to hurt your neck if you sleep like that.”

A light flicks on and Essek whines high in his throat, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes.

“Fuck, sorry,” someone else says. He can still hear Mollymauk coughing from somewhere across the room.

“Come on, legs up,” Caleb says softly. Essek braces himself and swings his legs up on the sofa, stretching out across the thin cushions. A heavy blanket covers him, and he huddles down beneath it automatically. Caleb’s hand is warm when he brushes hair out of Essek’s face. Essek has never had someone touch him like this, show this sort of care. It hits him harder than he knows it ought to, but he’s barely awake and his legs still ache even if his head has calmed, and the stress of the past week has left him drained in a way he is only recently becoming used to.

He tips his head against Caleb’s hand, practically nuzzling, though he’d deny it if asked.

“Go back to sleep,” Caleb says, softly. He can hear the kettle rumbling again and Nott whispering something sharply. He assumes it’s directed at Mollymauk, though in this group it could just as easily be yet another stray. Essek wonders, distantly horrified, if he counts as a stray as well.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”

“Please don’t apologize, you clearly need it. We can talk in the morning, ja?” 

“I—” 

Essek wants to push himself up, to force himself into wakefulness, to somehow justify his existence in Caleb’s space, but Caleb rests a hand on his shoulder and without even applying any pressure Essek sags back down. Caleb tucks the blanket close around him. He still smells like stale coffee and old books and smoke. It shouldn’t be soothing. He shouldn’t fall asleep. Probably, he shouldn’t even be here.

He sleeps, again, and doesn’t wake until morning. 

It’s the most he’s slept consecutively in his entire life. Until this last year, he hadn’t slept at all — only tranced — since he was very young, and he’s still deeply unsettled by simply losing time.

“There’s coffee,” Nott announces, as soon as he sits up.

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Caleb calls, without looking up from his book.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” says Essek. And, to Caleb, “Truly, you offer such hypocrisy so early in the morning?” 

“It’s 8:23,” Caleb says. “Not early.” 

“Fair,” Essek says.

“You’re all fucking monsters,” Mollymauk calls from beneath a stack of blankets and sweaters. “Anything before 10:00 is early.” 

“Shut up, you’re drugged,” Nott says. “Go back to sleep.”

“Excuse me?” Mollymauk asks. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Caleb says. 

Essek can feel his eyebrows attempting to escape into his hair. “Dare I ask?” 

“He’s fine,” Nott says, and hands Essek his coffee. She knows how he takes it, which is both charming and unnerving. “You can trust me, I’m a pharmacist.” 

“I am not working until noon,” Caleb says, finally looking up. “I thought if you are feeling up to it you can come and explore the books.” 

“And meet Jester,” Mollymauk says.

“You’re not coming,” Caleb says. “You’re staying here until you can walk more than thirty feet without dying.”

“Slander,” Mollymauk says, darkly.

“That sounds lovely,” Essek says, eagerly courteous as the full weight of his situation really hits him: he had entered Caleb’s home when Caleb wasn’t even present and proceeded to pass out on his sofa for sixteen hours. He hides his face in his coffee mug, slightly horrified.

“Jester and Arthur have been making Winter’s Crest drinks,” Caleb says, “you’ll be used as a lab rat, I’m afraid.”

“I am still sor—” Essek flails mentally.

“There is no need to apologize, my friend,” Caleb says, a shadow of a smile passing across his eyes. “I’m just glad you were able to rest.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Essek drinks more of his coffee. 

Grey light seeps in around the thin curtains, leaving everything pleasantly dim. Nott is layering on coats and scarves and a ridiculous purple knitted hat that is big enough to fit her ears but as a result flops down over her eyes. Caleb’s familiar jumps up onto the arm of the sofa beside Essek, and he politely offers his hand for investigation.

“Shortest day of the year tomorrow,” Mollymauk rasps, dragging his blankets with him as he settles into a kitchen chair, clearly not intending to go back to sleep.

“Is the Moonweaver super powerful, then,” Nott asks.

“She is closer to us than usual,” Mollymauk says, “Though it’s not a full moon so,” he waves a lax hand. “It balances out. But it’s still a day worth marking.”

Essek is very good at looking politely engaged while people talk about their religious beliefs. Nott and Caleb clearly don’t have his level of experience, but they’re giving it a good shot. Mollymauk doesn’t seem bothered by their scepticism, though if they’ve drugged him as Nott claims it could be simply that he doesn’t care about much at the moment.

Nott ties her final scarf layer and with a last warning to Mollymauk not to strain himself, she rushes out the door. Eventually Essek goes to shower and change, because Caleb seems entirely content to spend the next four hours buried in his books, and Mollymauk is squinting at his phone determinedly.

“Come look at this,” Caleb says, as soon as Essek exits the washroom, shivering after the luke-warm trickle that is the shower. He had almost chosen to wear the sweater he’d stolen from Caleb weeks previous, but he’s already shown enough vulnerability. He glides over to Caleb, hair dripping, and settles beside him on the mattress.

Caleb glances over at him, then tips his head to the side like a curious bird. “It is... a density cantrip, yes?” he asks, gently brushing fingers down the outside of Essek’s thigh where, he realizes, the blankets are barely disturbed by Essek’s magically reduced weight. 

“Yes,” Essek says, caught off guard.

“Hmm,” Caleb murmurs. “impressive.”

Essek leans in over his shoulder to study the book in his hands. Caleb’s spellbook is worn and tattered, but his penmanship is perfectly, elegantly crisp, and the ink seems to almost flicker static if he looks at it too hard. There’s also definitely a very small dick drawn in the corner of the page. “Alright, what am I looking at?”

*

The bookshop/coffee shop is dripping in Winter’s Crest decorations.

“Jester is... enthusiastic,” Caleb says, ducking his head as he brushes a strand of bright blue fake flowers out of his face, “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” Essek says, waving a hand.

The shop is devoid of customers, which is perhaps not unexpected because of the nearness of the holiday. There’s a tiefling behind the counter, an elf at the espresso maker, and a disturbingly large fake snowman perched in an armchair by the window. Essek glares distrustfully at it.

“Ohmygosh, Caleb, is this your boyfriend?!” the tiefling demands, clasping her hands under her chin.

“This is Essek,” Caleb says, shrugging out of his coat and holding out a hand for Essek’s own jacket. “These are my colleagues, Jester and Arthur.”

“Art,” the elf says, huffing. “I keep telling you.”

“I’m so excited to finally meet you!” Jester says. “I wanted to meet you when you were in town a couple months ago, but Caleb said I wasn’t allowed to bug you, and Nott said it’s creepy to watch people when they’re sleeping.”

“Trancing,” Art says. “Elves trance, which I know, because I am an elf.” 

“You are totally right,” Jester says. “I’m so glad I have my best friend, an elf, here to correct me on these things!” 

“Ja, it is creepy,” Caleb says, and puts a hand on Essek’s arm. “Come on, I brought you here to meet my friends, not these assholes.” 

“Fucking weeping into my dark chocolate and ginger mocha over here!” Art says.

Caleb leads him to the other side of the shop — roughly ten steps away — and sweeps a hand forward grandly. “My friends,” he says.

“Do you keep the interesting ones at the very top just to torture people?” Essek demands, craning his head back to stare at the rows of heavy tomes, some of which look ancient enough to be better placed in the Cobalt Archives, that line the top bookshelf. There are even a few tucked precariously into the rafters.

“It all depends on what you think is interesting,” Caleb says, amusement tinting his words. “Personally, I find smut fascinating.”

Essek wrinkles his nose. “If you don’t tell me otherwise, I’m going to start bringing books down.” 

Caleb pats his arm and lets go. Essek can still feel the warmth of his touch through his shirtsleeve. “Nothing will eat you,” he says. “I have an alarm set, but only for me.”

“I’m curious how you manage to keep such rare finds in stock,” Essek says, already moving his hand in a spell.

“The good ones are only for sale on paper,” Caleb says, lowering his voice as if the two behind the counter might care. “This is more of my... personal collection.” 

Essek thinks of the literal walls of books filling Nott and Caleb’s apartment, and doesn’t say a word.

*

By the time the sun has set outside Essek has built himself a small fort of books and papers, balancing his phone on an empty coffee mug and at least two pencils AWOL somewhere in the chaos. The shop had remained quiet all afternoon, but he's drawn out of his focus by the listless rattle of Jester shaking the tip jar as she lifts it to wipe up spilled coffee.

Caleb is curled up in the armchair across from the snowman, having abandoned all pretense of working once it became clear the few customers pushing through the door were regulars more interested in a specific coffee or a chat with one of the three staff than actually perusing the books. Snow has started drifting on the window ledges outside, which not even Jester has managed any enthusiasm for.

Essek’s caffeine headache is loitering warningly around the edges of his temples, not helped by the only food he’s eaten all day being primarily made of sugar and flour and probably chemicals. He can now say he has had the dubious honour of drinking coffee flavoured with apple, plum, and peppermint, along with the more standard chocolate or honey or ginger. It is entirely possible he has never consumed this much sugar in one day in his entire life, and he’s fairly certain there’s a reason for that. He had enjoyed the cinnamon cookies Jester had forced on him, even if the idea of cinnamon in a sweet is still rather strange, but the rest of the various pastries he has left untouched. Surely if he brings them back to the apartment Mollymauk or Nott will eat them, and he can escape without looking horrifically impolite in front of Caleb’s colleagues.

Mollymauk comes in just after closing, bells on his horns and tail jingling as he shakes snowflakes off his shoulders and hair. He’s flushed a deep violet, but Essek can’t guess if it’s from fever or cold.

“Molly!” Jester says, leaping over the counter, one boot almost kicking over the display of teas. “Have you picked a place yet?”

“...a place?” Caleb asks under his breath, closing his book with a finger holding his place.

“I have found options,” Mollymauk says, holding up his phone. “But I spent most of the morning staring at cat videos and marvelling at the fact of their existence, so I sure as fuck wasn’t going to be focused enough to read the menus or the reviews. But the pictures look good.”

“Are we going out?” Art asks, draping himself over the counter, elbows propped under his chest, ears twitching.

“Obviously,” Jester says. “You can’t spend the night before Winter’s Crest at home.”

“Obviously,” Art echos.

“It’s practically criminal,” says Mollymauk, nodding sagely.

Jester pulls out a slip of paper and flicks her fingers through the air, glancing over at Art and grinning. A map flares up in the air between the tieflings, and Mollymauk holds up his phone, tapping something on the screen. Four spots on the map flare up a cheerful purple, and Jester leans in.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, “is this a market? It looks really cute!”

“Winter’s Crest markets are a dime a dozen here,” Caleb calls over.

Jester huffs. "Well, Caleb, we didn’t really have any snow or stuff where I was growing up, so all the big city markets here are still pretty cool, ok? Mostly Winter’s Crest was just a bunch of dumb tourists and drunk sailors.” 

“It would be a first for me as well,” Essek says, keeping his voice low so only Caleb can hear. “But I leave it up to your discretion. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your traditions, but I know about your feelings around extended socializing.” 

Caleb taps a finger against his lower lip. “We will have plenty of time to stay home and read. I think perhaps it would be a nice way to spend the evening, as long as you and Mollymauk are up to it.” 

“I’m fine,” Essek says sharply.

Caleb shakes his head slowly. “Speaking as someone who has spent many days barely coherent as a result of overwork, I’m warning you now that you will not be able to keep it up forever.”

“A market sounds lovely,” Essek says, forcing cheer and standing to cross over to the others. He waits until he’s turned away from Caleb to flick his fingers, taking the weight off his legs. For the first time, the idea of floating is oddly uncomfortable.

It’s dark by the time they all get organized enough to leave. He walks beside Caleb. Mollymauk walks on Caleb’s other side, and Essek finds his gaze darting down to where his tail is wrapped comfortably around Caleb’s wrist. The streets get busier the closer they get into the old Pentamarket district, restaurants and shops propping their doors open even as snow gusts back and forth in the shifting wind. Overlapping music fades in and out as cars rush past, drowning out the sound with growling engines and screeching tires. Essek imagines the atmosphere would be charming were it not freezing cold and damp. 

It takes a moment for him to realize that they’ve entered the market. As far as he can tell, the main difference is that each block is marked by a makeshift table with determinedly cheerful vendors selling hot wine. For the first few blocks, the party seems determined to visit every single table, but after the fourth block they slow down their shopping. Essek isn’t floating, but his head still feels remarkably light after the fourth paper cup of wine. He’s very good at holding his alcohol, given the number of political functions he’s bolstered himself through, but there is something about the music and the people and moving through it all as part of a group leaves him buzzed and recklessly pleased. Even the suspicious glares of the Crownsguard stationed along the streets don’t bother him— the presence of Caleb and Art seems enough to dissuade them from actually approaching the group.

Caleb’s hand brushes his as they walk, and part of Essek wants desperately to grab hold. He doesn’t believe Caleb would object. He thinks perhaps even Caleb would like it. They’ve kissed before, yet somehow hand-holding seems more deliberate, more... decisive.

Jester drags Caleb into a shop, and Mollymauk steps closer to Essek like it’s automatic, like it’s simply obvious that he would fill the gap left by Caleb’s absence. Frumpkin has been draped over Molly’s shoulders, but as their group grows smaller he leaps to Essek, hissing at Art over Essek’s shoulder. The familiar is heavy and warm on his neck, whiskers brushing delicately against his throat. He knows Caleb can see and hear through the cat, and while it’s ridiculous to think he’s doing it at the moment, Essek can’t help but imagine that it is Caleb touching him by proxy.

When Caleb returns, he stops in front of Mollymauk and drapes a large rust-coloured scarf around his neck and face, catching it on his horns at first. Mollymauk burrows down into the wool, smiling at Caleb.

Essek glances away, but Caleb comes to stand in front of him next. “I saw that you had obtained sunglasses yesterday, and it looks like you have a new scarf.”

Frumpkin purrs proudly.

“I have something for you,” Caleb says. 

“You did not need to buy me anything,” Essek says, wincing, thinking of Caleb’s decrepit apartment.

Caleb holds up a finger, shushing him. “It is Winter’s Crest, ja? Let me indulge my silly traditions.” He fumbles in the paper bag he’s carrying, and pulls out a pair of black fingerless gloves. When he hands them to Essek they are incredibly soft, a loose knit out the outside and fleece on the inside.

Caleb ducks his head, cheeks flushing faintly. “I’m sure you don’t need them, but it is cold and maybe you did not bring any gloves with you. And they are very soft, and not too ostentatious.”

Essek reaches out with his free hand to touch Caleb’s wrist. “They’re lovely,” he says. “I can quite confidently say that this is the most I have enjoyed a holiday based in a religion in which I hold no faith. Thank you.” 

“Well,” says Caleb, “from what you’ve told me of your family that’s not a high bar, but I’m still glad.” 

Essek pulls the gloves on while they continue walking, and they are just as soft wrapped around his palms and wrists as he expected. It’s not quite holding hands with Caleb, but Essek suspects it invokes the same feelings. It is a hypothesis he would like to test, and the further they walk, the busier the streets become, the faster the wine goes to his head, the easier it seems to simply reach out and see what happens. So he does and Caleb’s fingers lace with his. Caleb's hands are very warm, even through the gloves. 

Mollymauk disappears for a few minutes while the rest of them are in a line up for hot chocolate, and returns with an enormously tall woman bundled up in a long grey ski jacket, her long, wild hair thoroughly coated in snowflakes. Caleb keeps holding a copper wire up to his mouth, and Essek is too charmed by the motion to point out that messaging someone doesn’t actually require you to speak directly into the wire as if it’s a phone.

“Nott and Beauregard are buying booze,” Caleb says after this has been going on for a good ten minutes. “They’re inviting us to Fjord’s apartment.”

“Does Fjord know that?” Art asks, smirking.

“Almost certainly not,” Caleb says, immediately.

“He won’t mind!” Jester waves a dismissive hand, a half-eaten plumb clutched between her fingers. “Molly shows up at his place unannounced all the time and he doesn’t care. Besides, it’s Winter’s Crest, he can’t say no!”

“To be fair, I also usually make him dinner when I do,” Mollymauk says.

The tall woman frowns thoughtfully. “If we’re bringing alcohol, that’s kind of like making him dinner.” 

“You have been spending too much time with Nott,” Caleb says, but he’s drowned out by Mollymauk’s emphatic agreement.

Essek recognizes all the names being thrown around from his conversations with Caleb and Nott and Mollymauk, but the ease with which a group of companions can simply come together with no prior planning or awkward social negotiations is entirely alien to him. He has never shown up to another person’s home unannounced in his life, and even when he’d been dragged to more casual gatherings by Verin it had only been with three or four other people. He does not think it’s _jealousy_ he’s feeling, but he doesn’t quite know what else to call it. Knowing that in only a few days he will leave this, separate himself out from this larger entity that is Caleb’s close-knit — family? is crippling in its inevitability in a way it never has been before.

They take an over-crowded, too warm bus to the other side of down town, leaving the carefully cultivated charm of the Pentamarket district and passing through the run-down narrow streets of Caleb and Nott’s neighbourhood before entering a grid of standardized bland shops and apartment towers that were likely the height of modern thirty years ago. Mollymauk almost falls asleep on Essek’s shoulder, which is both terribly awkward and increasingly alarming as the points of his horns move closer and closer to his face.

Yasha stands in front of them, blocking them with her body, so he’s uncertain how the decision is made that they need to donate to the alcohol stockpile, but then Jester hurries them all back out into the icy wind in front of a dingy looking little shop, one window papered entirely in advertisements for gambling halls and dentists. Essek doesn’t want to go in, but the sidewalks haven’t been cleared in the way that the more central areas had been, and he is rapidly coming to the realization that his shoes are not waterproof. It’s quiet, as well, with none of the revelry he’d seen previously. He thinks maybe, in a different place, it would be peaceful, but there is something about the non-descript buildings and packed down ice and snow and dirt on the street that make it feel oddly desolate. He loiters with Yasha and Jester near the door while Caleb, Art, and Mollymauk loudly debate cheap whisky and cider.

“Essek,” Jester says, “your makeup is so pretty.”

In the halogen lights her skin looks washed out, almost green against the pink of her coat and the yellow of her scarf. Yasha’s head tips slowly to look at Essek.

“Thank you,” he says, taken aback.

“I bet you have really good foundation and stuff in Xhorhas, huh?” Jester says. Yasha coughs on a sharp laugh.

“Comparatively, perhaps. In the cities.” 

“North,” Yasha says, softly.

Essek ducks his head. “Yes. Likely.”

Looking at Yasha makes him self-conscious, the clumsy discomfort of being faced by a textbook made suddenly real. He knew logically that the tribes in the harsh climate of southern Xhorhas were active and thriving societies, but he’d never really pictured running into someone from the tribes in the middle of a city.

“That would be so cool,” Jester says softly. “My mama imports a lot of makeup and she mails me things, but sometimes it takes a really long time to get here.” 

“I can bring you things when I come, if you like,” Essek says, before he can think better of it.

“That would be amazing!” Jester says, rubbing her hands together. “There’s literally one shade of blue in the shops here, and it is _so_ dark. And a lot of eyeliner just doesn’t show up on my skin for some reason.” 

“I can send you the website of the company I buy from,” Essek says, “and if you let me know what you need…” He shrugs slightly.

“Molly would like that too,” Yasha says, quietly. “And warm things for his tail. And his horns. He’s not like Jester, he feels the cold, even if he denies it.” 

“He’s crocheting stuff,” Jester says, like she’s defending him. “It’s just taking a while because he gets distracted.”

“I will ask him,” Essek says.

“Maybe one day we can come to Rosohna and visit you and we can go shopping!” Jester says, bouncing on her heels. Essek’s smile feels forced, even if the idea is not as unappealing as it should be.

“Alright, children, we have gifts to throw upon the altar of debauchery,” Mollymauk announces grandly, sweeping over to them with paper bags hanging off both arms.

“Are you certain your friend won’t mind us just showing up at his home?” Essek murmurs to Caleb, taking his hand as they push back out into the cold.

“Ja, he is very level-headed,” Caleb says. “It is a bit unorthodox, but he is good at, uhh, rolling with the punches.”

*

“What the actual fuck?” says the half-orc standing in the doorway of the apartment, his hair slowly dripping melting water down his forehead.

“Hi, Fjord!” Jester exclaims, holding up a mug of hot chocolate. “Happy Winter’s Crest!” 

“Why do bad things happen to good people?” Fjord groans, rubbing his hands down his face.

“I’m sorry, we’re very good things,” Mollymauk says, indignant.

Fjord stares around the room. “...Sure. Yeah, yeah, great. This might as well happen.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Beauregard.

“Nothing says Winter’s Crest to me like ‘this may as well happen’,” Nott says.

“I mean, yeah,” Caleb says, from where he’s in the middle of attempting to light the fireplace with a stack of pamphlets and paper plates.

“You’re all assholes,” Fjord announces, slumping.

“That’s how he says he loves us,” Caduceus tells Essek quietly. Given he’d also told Essek that his adding prescription cough medicine to Mollymauk’s tea without his knowledge is a reasonable treatment plan, his judgement is questionable.

“Don’t burn down my flat,” Fjord says, resigned. “I’m going to go shower off the penguin.”

There are so many things Essek is just choosing not to question when he is around these people.

The flames flare up across the room, followed by a cloud of smoke, and Essek looks over just in time to see Caleb smile more sincerely than he’s ever seen.

“Yeah, this is a lot of people without much time to prepare,” Caduceus says, following his gaze. “Sometimes he needs to take a minute.” 

“...A fire minute?” Essek says, almost a question.

Caduceus nods placidly. “A fire minute. Yeah.” 

He takes a sip of his tea. Essek finishes his wine.

“You got Control Water prepared, just in case?” Caduceus says.

“Already done,” Essek says, summoning his spellbook before the last word has fully left Caduceus’s mouth.

Later, Essek is settled in the hazy lethargy of alcohol, side pressed up against Caleb where they are both squished together in an armchair, with Mollymauk leaning against his legs while he braids Yasha’s hair. The room smells like incense and nutmeg, unfamiliar music playing from the out-dated television in the corner, and Essek feels warm for the first time since he arrived in Zadash. Caleb leans across Essek to set his mug on a table, one hand resting absently on Essek’s upper arm. The thought drifts softly into Essek’s mind, gentle and quiet and insidious: one day, the ticket he books to Zadash could be one-way.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm marking this as complete, but there might be one final part to it. Who knows? Not me, that's for fucking sure.


End file.
